


just like we were kids again

by LaraH_H



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 'haha what if we kissed... just kidding ur gross and dumb. unless.....', Amnesia, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection?, Multiple Timelines, OC/OC- Free form, Serious Injuries, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), fe3h - Freeform, mentions of vomiting, modern! AU, mostly - Freeform, tags to be updated as i go lmao, technically friends to enemies to friends to lovers but shhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23205025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaraH_H/pseuds/LaraH_H
Summary: no matter how many times the world seems to tear them apart, through amnesia, through war, through a hundred different timelines, they always find each other.
Relationships: Marlon Montgomery/Larisa Beaumonte (Selene Courtenay)
Kudos: 2





	1. the winds of change feel like any other breeze

The day Marlon’s whole life changed began like any other. He woke early, helped his father bottle his medicines, took five bitter tasting herbs to keep his frail body moving and hid upstairs whilst women took their turns claiming to be his mother. It’s a miserable routine, but there’s little he can do about it. 

_"The winds of change feel like any other breeze’_ , she was to remark to him later- though of course, he didn’t know her yet. And she was right. There’s nothing special about the wind that fills the sails of the ship that brings her to him.

The girl that changes his life has wild, perpetually wind-blown brown hair that cascades down her back like a chestnut waterfall. Her eyes are shifting oceans of blue-green, swirling with unreadable emotion. Her skin is sun-kissed and littered with tiny scars, and he envies the muscle that ripples just beneath, strength accumulated through years of raising anchors and climbing rigging and fighting off opponents much larger than her. She smells of sweat and sea spray and something vaguely, weirdly floral. 

And, most importantly, she’s utterly ridiculous. Completely and utterly out of her mind. And he’s utterly stupid. Completely and utterly moronic to start following at her heels like some kind of dog in a matter of weeks. The very thought of it makes his lip curl.

But he follows her anyway. How could he not? She’s magnetic- like a planet all of her own, vast and unknowable, pulling everything and everyone into her orbit. That’s it, she’s like a star- though he quickly discards that metaphor the moment he thinks of it. Even the brightest stars burn out. He doesn't want to think about the inevitable snuffing out of her light. 

And he- he is just one of many moons circling her. Her gravity is inescapable for him, keeping him glued to her side with just a few words or an outstretched hand. Who is he to her? He thinks about it every now and again. What is a moon to a planet, to a star, to the sun? Just another person caught up in her wonderful mystery. But still she reaches for him, only ever him, and drags him with her as she runs off to her next hare-brained adventure, and it soothes his insecurity. She carries him when his weak body can’t keep up with her (though in his defence, he doubts anyone could possibly keep up with her), whisking him far away from his monotonous life, if only for an afternoon. 

Marlon doesn’t know it yet, doesn’t have the words to put to it, but he loves her. Later, when he looks back on it, he’ll kick himself for not seeing it, but as a timid boy with only eleven years to his name, how could he have ever put that one four-letter word to the warmth that blossoms under his skin with every brush of her fingers against his?

“H-here.” He stumbles a little on the word, shoving the bracelet in her hand. It’s made of rope, the naval grade stuff and hand dyed sunny yellow with flowers.

The look on her face as she examines his gift is one he revisits often in his memory; the widened eyes, the surprise that lifts her features, the flush that paints her cheeks. She’s floored, for a reason he can’t grasp, and he knows in that instant he’d do anything to make her look like that again. 

How long have they known each other now? Three weeks? A month? Two months? Time seems so inconsequential around her; like no time beyond right now has ever mattered. She lives only in each second as it happens. There is no past for her- nor any future. She feels no sentiment for bygone days. She is as fleeting as the wind, and to fall even one step, one second behind is to lose sight of her. And Marlon is no fool. He cannot walk step in step with her as he is. So he resolves to be stronger. Strong enough to run by her side. Maybe not now, but soon, surely. He’s already changing under her carefree and unreadable gaze- doing things he never thought he could. At night, he practices the movements she teaches him with a carving knife. Lunge. Parry. Riposte. Repeat.

If only he’d known what the future held, if only _if only_ **if only**. He might have savoured the feeling of running his hands through her mess of curls a little more, might have run after her a little harder, might have gripped her hand a little tighter. But life is full of ‘if only’s, he’s learnt, and regret can be as much of a hand at his back urging him forward and much as it can be a ball and chain wrapped around his heart. 

But for now, relaxing in blissful ignorance, gazing up at the sky with her lying next to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, he feels as though nothing in the world could possibly ruin this beautiful tranquility.


	2. by your hand, I live and die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's wanted to see him again for five years. Even with his blade at her throat. She'll take what she can get.

Marlon’s eyes are blazing when he faces her, sword in hand. Part of her is proud of him, that he’s able to fight with weaponry in battle just like he always wanted to.

“Stand. Down.” He hisses, pulling her from her internal reverie. She doesn’t move an inch. This is her final stand, and she knows it. She’s always known you can’t delay the inevitable for long- and yet she wishes she could've staved it off just a little bit longer. She’s been so careful in her avoidance of him on the battlefield, a fruitless attempt to escape this tragic conclusion, she knows. 

“I can’t. I’m also fighting for something I believe in, you know? I have people I have to protect.” _Like him_.

“In that case, I guess I have no choice.” There’s regret in his eyes at least, and even though she’s doing all this to avoid hurting him, a part of her is glad that he feels _something_ about her potential death. 

Then their blades are scraping against each other, sparks flying from where metal meets metal. Larisa can see her training in his movements, from his stance to his grip to the way he turns the flat of his sword to apply more pressure and force her back. They’re far more evenly matched combat wise than their days in Garreg Mach, but she’s still quicker, and she can predict his movements based on her own techniques. It should be more than enough of an edge to win- but she can’t bring herself to do more than fend off his bruising advances. He’s taller and bulkier too, blocking any hope of making it out of the entrance. She makes a break for a broken window, finding her footing in the numerous cracks in the walls- but he grabs the back of her clothing and sends her crashing into the floor. There’s an audible cracking noise when she makes contact with unforgiving stone, and she gasps for air around the pain of broken bones. She barely has enough strength to push herself upright against the crumbling altar, to meet his eyes. 

“I suppose… I should have seen this coming. You’ve hated me since our academy days, right? You must have wanted to do this for a while. How fortunate for you.” Larisa laughs bitterly. Fuck, she can feel her eyes burning already, hurting just as much as the broken ribs that creak in her chest with every faltering rise and fall. 

“Even if you don’t know why… if I must die- for it to be at your hands… ah, I’m so grateful… Because it means I’ll get to see you… one last time.” It’s stupid, considering she’s about to die at his hands, but she gets the urge to brush his hair from his face. She sees confusion and her own injured form reflected in his eyes, but presses on.

“I wish… we could have walked together… but I ...had to protect you…” Words are getting harder to form now, her head going fuzzy. Even through the haze slowly settling over her mind, she wonders briefly, in another life, if they could ever have walked hand in hand out of this cursed ruin, both alive and elated to have found one another. Such a life sounds like paradise. But paradise is about at real as the glass images of the Goddess that would have once filled the empty windows above her.

“Farewell… Birdie. I hope in a place beyond this war-ravaged world…. We may meet again.” ’I love you’, She finishes in her head.

The crunch of sword ripping through flesh is deafening in the empty cathedral, and in the last few milliseconds she has left, she’s grateful only a few tears manage to escape to trickle down her face before her eyes turn glassy and unseeing.

She never gets to see his expression as realisation dawns upon him, the pure anguish that contorts his handsome face, the way he casts his sword aside to cradle her corpse in his arms. No, she’s long since walked into that pinprick of light in the centre of her faded vision, so she’ll never know the way he repeats her name, how tears stream from his eyes when he finally notices the faded yellow rope around her wrist or the screams of grief that tear themselves from his throat, painful and downright animalistic. She’s unaware of the way he tries spell after spell on her limp body, trying to knit severed flesh back together and to summon warmth back to her limbs until his own body begins to break under the strain. She’s completely oblivious to how their once fellow schoolmates have to physically restrain him from turning the sword that ended her life on himself, how it takes seven of them to move him from her slumped form, or how he screams and screams for her until his lungs give out and he loses consciousness. 

And thus Selene Courtenay rests alone and peacefully in blissful ignorance, the bloodied carcass of a body dusted gold by the sunlight filtering through the holes in the old cathedral walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got thinking about 'what if Larisa was the one to remember instead of Marlon' and ran with it


	3. i see you in my nightmares just as often as in my dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> red is symbolic of a lot of things. fire. rage. passion. in the middle of a war though, it's hard not to think of blood.

A battle cry rings out, Claude’s voice echoing in the air, and Larisa’s feet are moving before her ears even register sound. One, two, three Empire soldiers fall to her sword, a Cutting Gale finishing off two more. She dodges an arrow aimed for her throat with ease, catching the other in her free hand on instinct. The shaft splinters in her palm. It’s still usable though, and she drops it into Ignatz’s quiver as she runs past. The discordant sound of battle raging around her should be thunderous, but the blood roaring in her ears is far more deafening, reducing screeching metal and the cries of fallen soldiers into white noise. She doesn’t think. She can’t afford to- not when she runs Caspar through on her sabre when he takes a swipe at her head with the intention of separating it from her body, nor when she sets Ferdinand’s mount on Fire and his skull is crushed under its flailing hooves. Not when she can see Edelgard just ahead, the crimson of her clothing bright as the blood that covers that vile axe that twitches like a living thing. She hones in on her form like a homing beacon. One well-placed thrust is all it takes to end this. Each step propels her forward to the bloody conclusion- whether it’ll be Edelgard’s or hers is not something she has the liberty to guess at. Then there’s a flash of movement and another soldier plants himself firmly in her path. Gritting her teeth, she makes no indication of stopping, barrelling straight into him. His blade meets hers, steel scraping against steel, but her momentum forces him to the ground. Her reflection snarls up at her from his silver breastplate, bloodstained and half feral. 

“Goodbye, Marlie.” The sadness in her own voice surprises her, but there’s no hesitation in the swing at his neck.

“Selene-“ The point buries itself in his jugular. Blood pours from his body like a stream, staining the dirt beneath him rust-red. A gasp of air and a full body twitch, and then he stills. She’s still too, motionless from where she straddles his still-warm corpse, hands holding the hilt in a white-knuckled grip. The blue rope bracelet that has rendered her inert seems to taunt her from its place on his wrist. ‘Look what you’ve done’, it seems to sneer, ‘Look at who you’ve killed. Wrapped up in another senseless war. Idiot. Monster.’

“…Birdie…”

Larisa bolts upright. Bile burns the back of her throat, searing like fire, and she lurches out of bed. Disoriented and in complete darkness, the only thing moving her forward is some subconscious realisation that puking on the carpet might not be the best idea. By some miracle, she makes it to the bathroom just in time to heave up last night’s meagre rations. 

She’s not sure how long she’s been there, hunched over the toilet bowl. It hurts to even breathe. Her mouth tastes like shit. A pounding headache has settled itself behind her temples. Tears are drying tacky to her cheeks, and she can barely summon the strength to blow her nose on a towel. Which summons another dry heaving spell. _Great_. Folding her arms over the rim, she rests her head on her forearm and slowly counts to ten. Then twenty. By the time she reaches fifty, she feels some of her panic subside and her stomach settle. She reminds herself where she is, what she’s doing here, that he’s safe and alive and apart from a sprained wrist, unharmed. She’s in Enbarr. The Alliance collapsed and Claude fled to Almyra. Ignatz died in the final skirmish. Caspar and Ferdinand did not. She joined the Empire. Edelgard is an ally now. She found him. While it orients her sleep-addled brain, it does nothing to assuage the fear still tugs at the edges of her mind though, like the smallest give to it could send her spiralling again. 

She wants to see him. She feels it as a physical pang, like hunger or thirst. She _needs_ to see him. Standing on shaky legs (she’s walked off far worse) and disposing of the evidence of her breakdown, she’s half walking, half stumbling down the halls of the Emperor’s palace. The oppressively red decor only serves to remind her of her dream, cartoonishly eerie in the dead of night, the nightmare that hurts so much because it could easily have been a reality. Perhaps in another timeline, if such things exist, it was. The thought almost sends her back into panic, but she shoves it back down with great effort. She finds his room on autopilot, mind preoccupied with fending back images of Marlon’s body, lifeless beneath her-

 **Knock knock**. She raps her knuckles against the door to his sleeping quarters. Part of her hopes he doesn’t hear her. She doesn’t want him to see her in this state. A much larger part is ready to kick down the door if he doesn’t. 

The door opens just a fraction, and one amber eye meets hers. Irritation is evident on what little of his face she can see, but it melts away the moment it turns its gaze on the rest of her face.

“Fucking shit, Selene, you look like hell.” His voice is thick with sleep, but his concern still makes itself known. He must be tired, using her old name like this. Somehow, it feels intimate in a way she can't describe, but assumes he must feel every time she calls him 'Birdie'.

“Feel like it too.” She mumbles, wincing a little at the strain on her abused throat. She really should have gone for a glass of water.

“Just- wait here a second.”

 _‘Where else would I go?’_ She thinks of replying dryly. She can’t quite find it in her to verbalise it though. Waiting obediently, she starts counting again in her head when all the red swimming in her peripheral starts to mess with her head again. 

Another moment passes before the door swings wide open, revealing Marlon, worry etched on his handsome face and thankfully, mercifully intact. His bangs hang over his eyes messily, weirdly nostalgic to their academy days. Loose cotton pants hang from his hips and bless the man, a glass of water is in his hand. When he passes it to her, she almost weeps as she downs it gratefully.

“You just gonna stand there or what?” He crosses his arms over his bare chest and fuck, was he always this muscular? Damn. Shit, he just asked her a question.

“Inviting me into your room this late at night? My, how scandalous~” She teases. He rolls his eyes half-heartedly and retreats back into the room. She follows, closing the door behind her. Marlon’s already lit a candle by his bed, bathing the room in a comfortable orange glow. She places the empty glass on his nightstand before wandering aimlessly back to the centre of the room. This is what she thought she wanted, but now she doesn’t actually quite know what to do. At least she’s gotten her confirmation that yes, he is still alive thank you very much.

“So you wanna tell me why you’ve shown up to my room, in the middle of the night, looking like you got hauled through the woods by a Demonic Beast?” She blinks blearily at him in lieu of a reply. Suddenly, she doesn’t feel like talking anymore. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake that she should’ve dealt with alone. 

“Just looking for a lil’ late-night company-” She bats her eyes playfully.

“Cut the bullshit. Selene, what happened.” He sees right through her (of course he does, because despite being a brilliant liar, she’s never been good at hiding things from him) and the firmness in his eyes cuts her to the core, making her feel exposed. She thinks she understands why people have always hated when she’s done that to them. It’s too vulnerable. She’s meant to be untethered to normal attachments, untouchable to ordinary anxieties. To breeze through life without it ever touching her. But in spite of her best efforts, at the end of the day, even she is still pitifully human.

Then her lip is quivering, and she’s battling back tears and fuck, she hates this. Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes hard enough to see sparks behind her eyes, she struggles to control her breathing. All the panic and hurt and the bone-deep exhaustion comes rushing in all at once, like a tidal wave of ‘not good’ crashing over her and dragging her under. She looks at him through teary eyes.

“I just… I- I…” With little sobs slipping out every time she opens her mouth, she quickly decides words aren’t working for her. Thankfully, she doesn’t need them. Marlon crosses the space between them in two strides and takes her into his arms. 

“It’s okay. Let it all out.” He murmurs by her ear, and those soft words of comfort are the final straw. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, sobbing so hard her whole body trembles. Her hands clutch at his back like she’s scared any second he’ll break away or disappear if she lets go for even a second. One of his hands wraps around her waist, pulling her to him, while the other strokes carefully at her hair. He smells like sweat and musk and something earthy. It’s grounding in all the right ways.

“Can I... stay here tonight…” She whispers, muffled against his skin. Anxiety grips her the moment the words leave her mouth. What’s she going to do if he kicks her out now? She already knows she’ll get no sleep staring at the ceiling of her stupid red room. 

“Of course.” She sighs, closing her eyes. He’s safe. And warm. Even with her legs feeling like they might give out at any second, all she wants to do is stay here, hugging in the middle of his room. Marlon has other plans though. The hand in her hair moves, and Larisa would never admit to the very undignified squeak that escapes her when he scoops her up bridal style. He carries her to his bed, dropping her unceremoniously onto the mattress.

“Here.” Is all he says. Grabbing a bunch of fur blankets from a chair by the dormant fireplace, he starts arranging them on the floor.

“Oi, what’re you doing?” 

“What does it look like? Going to bed.” He shoots back, crouched over his makeshift bedding. Yeah nah, not on her watch. Dragging herself to the edge of the bed, she winds her arms over his shoulders.

“Don’t.” He freezes under her hands, and she can’t resist tracing her fingers over the hard planes of his biceps.

“Please…” She rummages around in her head for the right words, “Stay. With me.” Not exactly subtle or particularly eloquent, but hopefully it gets the job done. And it does. He rises to his feet, staring down at her with some emotion in his eyes that she can’t quite place. 

“Move over.” He grumbles, but the softness that rounds his usually hard features undercuts the bite in his voice. She laughs, rolling over with surprising grace. The mattress bends under his weight as he lays down behind her. She feels behind her for his hand, throwing it over her stomach. He gets the hint, and shifts closer to curl around her. She turns to tuck her head under his chin. It’s kind of weird how his body dwarfs her after so many years of being significantly taller than him, but it’s comforting. Marlon feels like broad-shouldered safety. Like as long as she’s here, with him, nothing could ever get to her. Or like anything could get to him without her being able to protect him.

He’ll ask her again in the morning why she came here looking, as he aptly remarked, ‘like hell’, and she’s not sure she’s ready to tell him. But right now, things like dread and misery are so far away as she sinks further into his warmth. 

“Thank you.” She whispers. He huffs tiredly in response. A hand returns to rest in her hair, and she lets herself go boneless, melting into the touch. 

“…Don’t leave.” The ‘me’ goes unspoken, but she knows they both hear it.

“I won’t.” He says with conviction. And for all her uncertainty, she finds it dangerously easy to believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write some hurt/comfort (rather than just straight angst oof) and this is what I came up with :)


	4. marriage maker, marriage breaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> husband and wife. the shared apartment they've been joking about for years. what could possibly go wrong?
> 
> (Modern! AU)

“So let me get this straight,” Marlon stands in the middle of their new living room with his arms folded. At his feet rests several cardboard boxes. “We move into our first apartment together, as husband and wife, and the _first_ piece of furniture you go and buy is called ‘The Divorcemaker’.”

Larisa raises her hands defensively.

“I thought it was funny!”

“You would, wouldn’t you.” He grumbles, prodding gingerly at the boxes with his foot. “Never mind we don’t even have a fucking bed yet.” She winces. Okay, so maybe he has a point. Apparently he notices the way her face falls, because he crouches to inspect one of the longer boxes.

“Well, it’d be a waste of money to ditch it now.” He says it with the air of a long-suffering man, helpless to the whims of his wife. She ruffles his hair affectionately, because despite his theatrics, she knows he enjoys humouring her dumb impulses. He swats half-heartedly at her hand. 

“The box cutter’s on the kitchen counter.” She nods, setting off to retrieve it and returning a moment later, blade in hand. Marlon holds the boxes in place as she makes deft incisions until a pile of white plastic panels and bags of screws cover the floorboards. Fuck. That’s a lot of parts. 

“What the fuck even is this thing?” Marlon groans. He seems to share a similar sentiment. Larisa squints at the image on one of the discarded boxes.

“The Liatorp media system.”

“Which is?”

“Big shelf.”

“Oh.” He picks up the instruction manual, “Well, how hard could putting together a stupid shelf be-“ Marlon cuts himself off, staring down at the diagram on the first page. “ _Shit._ " She plucks it out of his hands, shooting him a reassuring grin.

“We’ll be fine.” She says confidently. She was to look back and laugh over how misguided that confidence was, but in this moment, it was just a shelf. To echo Marlon’s words, ‘How hard can it be?’

*****

Very, apparently. 

“I want a divorce.” Larisa complains from where she’s draped over the single shelf they’ve managed to put together in the space of three hours. He grunts.

“This is your karma for deluding yourself into thinking you’re funny,” Pausing his (futile) attempt to set two panels up, he turns to glare at her, “Though you always manage to drag me into your shit.” 

“Fair.” With the sigh of a woman bearing the world upon her shoulders, she extracts herself from the meagre fruits of their labour and tiptoes her way over the still scattered pieces of the godforsaken shelf. After another three (four?) hours of fiddling, screwing, and a fair amount of cursing, they have… part of what might, if you were to squint and partake in some brownies of questionable origin, consider to be a TV cabinet. Maybe. It’s not exactly a strict rectangle, like in the diagram, and maybe that’s because Larisa’s taking a backseat in order to ogle her husband as he labours over the construction of this plastic monstrosity. 

It’s 12:34am when Marlon tosses the screwdriver down in defeat. They’re on page 11 of 32 in the instruction booklet. The ‘media system’ currently consists of one TV cabinet and the hollow shell of a shelf. Larisa rests a blue Gatorade against his forehead. He doesn’t even look at what it is, downing half the bottle in one go. 

“I want a divorce.” He mutters. Larisa laughs.

“I’ll get you one for Christmas.” Marlon grumbles unintelligibly at that, propping himself up against the wall. She sits down next to him and he rests his head on her shoulder. The hand not gripping her ice tea rises to card her fingers through his hair. It’s damp with sweat, and he’s kinda smelly, but she doesn’t mind- it’s her fault anyway. 

“Hey Birdie.” He makes a noise that she takes as acknowledgement, “I love you.” 

“…Love you too.” She smiles. Standing, she puts her hands on her hips. 

“Come on soldier, let’s get you to bed.” He doesn’t move, looking up at her with pleading eyes. Ah. Warmth blooms in her chest. Before Marlon, she’d never have thought she was capable of feeling so much fondness for one person. 

“Alright, come ‘ere Birdie.” Hooking one arm under his thighs, the other snaking around his back, she lifts him effortlessly. He mumbles… something, hand clinging to the front of her tank top and with the heart palpitations it gives her, Larisa thinks it should be illegal to be that cute. Pressing a kiss to the top of his head, she deposits him on the mattress in the middle of the space they chose for their bedroom before heading back out to face the glorified bookshelf. She cracks her knuckles. 

It was going to be a long night. Good thing she picked up five cans of Red Bull. And there’s a half-drunk Monster somewhere in the kitchen. She sends a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity made Marlon a heavy sleeper as she sets about promptly dismantling and reassembling possibly the worst purchase of her life while feeling silently smug about every time Marlon said those carpentry classes she took over the summer were pointless. Maybe if he’d joined her, they’d be done by now- but she keeps that jab to herself. He’d done his best for someone who can’t tell a butt joint from a ceiling joist. The soundtrack to that new movie she and Marlon want to go see blares in her ears, and she sings along quietly as she screws the nails into the indicated holes.

_"They’ve burnt to ashes  
Faded to grey, Returned to the earth  
Yes it's meant to be  
Uncertain flame of hope I found  
Will you lead me back on the right track~?"_

She's not sure at what point she passes out, but Larisa wakes to a hand at her shoulder, shaking her gently. It takes her a couple of seconds to come to, which she spends blinking wearily. She’s lying starfished on the floor, surrounded by hammers and screwdrivers. 

“Did I do it…?” She mumbles. Marlon snorts.

“What do you think?” He gestures to the wall. There, in all its off-white, marriage-straining glory, is the Divorcemaker, perfectly set up, and Larisa could cry at the sight. It’s almost beautiful, with the sunlight bouncing off the plastic veneer. 

“Our marriage is saved!” Larisa cheers, punching a fist in the air. 

“Sure.” He sounds amused, then fixes her with a glare, “But if you _ever_ pull something like this again, we’re over.” It’s an empty threat and they both know it. Of course she’s going to do something like this again, and of course he’ll oblige. 

She’s never pretended not to be selfish- she warned him about it when they started dating, but although he likes to pretend otherwise, Marlon’s always been so generous with her. Larisa feels her heart swell with that all-too familiar mushy feeling when she leans forward to kiss him. 

“Sure.” She repeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was joking about them assembling IKEA furniture and then. very suddenly. it ceased being a joke...


	5. midnight rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which larisa makes marlon an offer she knows he'll find difficult to refuse.
> 
> (pre-timeskip, pre-relationship)

Walking around the Monastery grounds at night was, perhaps, ill-advised. Not for any legitimate danger, but the chance that one would get caught by Seteth patrolling the hallways and be treated to a lecture spanning anywhere from an hour to dawn’s first rays. 

Luckily for people like Larisa, whose footfalls are soundless as falling snow, it's easy enough to circumvent the green-haired problem entirely with a bit of speed and light acrobatics. Anyone could do it, she thinks.

She just wasn’t expecting ‘anyone’ to be Marlon. From his stocky, barrel-chested build, Marlon is certainly not built for the kind of stealth and agility Larisa is, yet the grunts and muttered swears she hears through the Training Hall doors as she passes are unmistakably his. Then again, in a school designed to train kids to kill, she supposes not even Seteth would begrudge a student working hard at that very thing. 

For a moment, she just stands there listening to him train, weighing up the pros and cons of interrupting him, and promptly decides that if nothing else, at least getting yelled at is something to pass to time. Pushing the doors open, she fixes an easy grin to her face. Marlon hasn’t noticed her yet, still hacking away gracelessly at a dummy. The training sword he’s using is splintering in his hand with every strike. 

“Your form looks like shit.” She comments helpfully. Marlon misses the training dummy entirely and swears loudly. A familiar look of irritation pushes his brows together as he rounds on her, his grip on the thoroughly messed up wooden sword tightening.

“Oh, and you’re the supreme expert on swordplay, are you?” He shoots back. Larisa shakes her head.

“I wouldn’t go that far, but we’ve been paired up for missions long enough that I know even _you_ aren’t stupid enough to think what you’re doing is any good.” Marlon grits his teeth and says nothing, tossing aside the ruined sword and picking up another. Larisa allows him to turn his back on her, taking a sword for herself and tapping him firmly at the back of the head with the hilt. 

" _The fuck was that for!?_ " He half-growls, hand coming up to rub over the swiftly forming bruise. She smiles and leans forward on the wooden weapon, nonchalant as ever. 

“For fun. What’re you going to do about it?” It’s a challenge, clear and simple, and Larisa barely has time to note the shift in Marlon’s stance before he lunges at her. She sidesteps him easily, planting a soft leather sole between his shoulder blades and pushing lightly, letting momentum take care of the rest. He hits the ground with a solid ‘thud’, the wind knocked out of him by the cold, hardwood flooring. Pointing the sword at the back of his neck, she makes sure to look especially unbothered as she taunts him.

“Is that all? How disappointing… but I guess that’s as much combat proficiency as I can expect from a healer.” There’s a split-second in which she sees the exact moment his eyes catch fire, and she’s briefly so entranced by it that she forgets to react when he rolls onto his back and tucks his legs to his chest, kicking upwards. The next thing Larisa knows, she’s inches away from colliding with stone. Twisting her body to get her feet under her, she uses the wall as a jumping off point, launching herself right back at him- Marlon looks surprised and tries to move from her path, but she flings out her arm and hooks around his middle, sending them both crashing back to the floor. Marlon reacts first, pinning her down and she lets him. They stare at each other, the only noise is the faint crackling of the torches that light the room and the sound of their breathing (of which Marlon’s is, to her satisfaction, heavier than hers). The candlelight that illuminates the room brushes his skin with pale orange light, his yellow eyes tinted gold, and though Larisa would go to her grave before saying it aloud, Marlon looks… kind of beautiful. 

She tilts her head to the side to get a better look. Her ponytail catches a little on where the floorboards have been chipped as she does so, and to her surprise, Marlon untangles her hair from a protruding splinter of wood with deft hands. So some part of him could be nimble after all… Interesting.

“So do you want to yield now, or have me beat your ass some more to spare your pride.” Marlon blinks, as though breaking out of a trance, and withdraws his hand quickly, flushing. Cute…

“Shouldn’t you be the one yielding? I’m the one who’s got you pinned.” He replies a little too quickly. Larisa feels a shit-eating grin spread across her face.

“Only because I’m letting you.”

“Oh yeah-“ Before he can finish his retort however, Larisa lurches forward, head butting him square in the nose. He reels back in pain, and she grabs her sword from where it lays to her left, shoving him down and straddling his torso, tip resting lightly on his Adam’s apple. 

“Yeah.” She says. He looks at her, then at the sword, and swallows hard. She can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

“… I yield.” He spits the words out as though they burned him, refusing to meet her eyes. Larisa decides to take pity on him and doesn’t press him any further. She offers him a hand up, but he just scoffs and gets to his feet on his own.

“So are you going to keep swinging your sword like a moron or are you going to let me help you?” Marlon looks back at her in disbelief. 

“You’d… do that?”

“Of course,” She says, levelling her gaze with his, “That is, for a price.” 

Marlon snorts, but doesn’t look surprised. 

“Ain’t nothing in life for free. What’s your price?” He eyes her warily. Blood trickles from his nose as he talks, but he waves his hand idly and it heals instantly. Honestly, she hadn’t had an idea in mind when she’d said it, but now, she thinks she has the perfect plan.

“No need to look at me like that- I just want you to teach me white magic.” That gets his attention, and his features fall into their usual scowl. Larisa is well-acquainted with his dislike of his own white magic aptitude- she’s overheard enough fights with Edelgard over battle position assignments- but she’s equally aware of his fixation with swords, and one of those things has to be stronger than the other.

Marlon seems to war with himself as he thinks her offer over, grumbling quietly as he stares down the rack of training swords. He’s quiet for so long that Larisa almost thinks he’s about to turn her down.

“…Fine, whatever.” Larisa positively beams, but Marlon raises his hand to stop her from speaking, “But I’ll only tutor your dumb ass for as long as you teach me, got it?”

Larisa nods.

“Fair enough. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” She asks.

“Sure. Don’t be late, or I won’t teach you shit about white magic.”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” Larisa rolls her eyes, tossing her sword back in the rack as she goes to leave. She pauses with her hand resting on the door.

“Goodnight, Marlie.”

“Don’t call me that.” She hears him grumble behind her, and she laughs. But just before she closes the heavy, iron-bound doors behind her… she swears she hears him say ‘goodnight’ back.


	6. just a scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how many ways can marlon call larisa an idiot? a lot, apparently. 
> 
> (pre-timeskip, pre-relationship)

Larisa had returned from the mission two nights ago, and had spent every second since in the hospital wing. The image of her lithe form cradled in Edelgard’s arms, so uncharacteristically small and fragile, seemed branded on the inside of Marlon's eyelids. He'd tried to corner her, tried to get answers, but she'd simply brushed past him as though he wasn't even there, her dark-haired shadow glowering ominously after him. Goddess, there had been so much blood. It stained the grass of the Monastery courtyard, left crimson trails in stone hallways, soaked the front of Edelgard's shirt. By some terrible stroke of luck, he'd been assigned to the group that cleaned it up, but was quickly excused when others noticed his shaking hands. All the while, he'd been plagued by some irrational sense of guilt. There was nothing he could've done, he told himself. He hadn't been there. It did nothing to make him feel better. 

Finally, Manuela returns to class, frazzled and tired-looking, no longer standing guard at the clinic door, preventing visitors. Marlon slips soundlessly from the room.

Larisa sits up in the bed as he enters. Her hair is a tangled mess, loose around her shoulders, and exhaustion tucks itself into the droop of her eyelids. Her sun kissed skin looks unnaturally pallid, barely darker then the bandages wrapped around it. Her hair is longer than he’d imagined it’d be- yet somehow, despite it being the first time he’s seen her with her hair down, it feels familiar in a way that tugs insistently at the edges of his memory. He promptly kicks himself for thinking it. What was wrong with him?

“Ah, just the healer I wanted to see.” She grins at him. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Something twinges in his chest at the sight, which he pointedly ignores.

“What’ve you done to yourself this time?” He crosses his arms over his broad chest.

She waves her hand dismissively.

“Two broken ribs, took a spear to the side, a couple of scratches here and there- nothing life threatening, much to your disappointment, I'm sure.” 

“For the Goddess’s sake…” Marlon presses the heels of his hands to his temples. She had the unfortunate habit of giving him headaches, and he could already feel one setting in. 

“Will I make it, doc?” She gives him mock-pleading eyes. He rolls his in response. 

“Your wounds can be treated.” Marlon sighs, shaking his head, “But your stupidity is incurable.” 

He barely feels the jab she directs under his ribcage, which is a sure sign that she’s more hurt than she’s admitting.

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.” She laments dramatically, flopping back onto the pillows. He almost misses the flinch as she connects with the mattress. Almost.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He seats himself on the edge of the bed, and she holds her hand out obligingly. Carefully, he begins to unwrap the worryingly bloody bandages around her forearm, dread building. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when the last of it falls away. 

“ _That’s_ what you call a _scratch!?_ ” The gash runs the entire length of her forearm, curving from inside of her wrist to the point of her elbow. The inflamed skin around the edge of the stitches holding her arm together is red-purple in coloration, probably infected. It looks unbelievably painful, and yet even now, with the evidence of her pain laid bare, she looks wholly unbothered. 

“Yeah? A demonic beast _scratched_ me.” Seeing his unimpressed expression, she shrugs, “Nasty little fucker caught me off guard. It was my fault for not paying attention- besides, I’ve had worse.” 

The pieces start to connect in his mind. It wasn’t that she couldn’t feel it then, or that her body was simply too tough to be particularly bothered by it. She wasn’t letting herself be hurt… because, what? She thinks she deserves it? Or maybe, he thinks, she’s just used to hurting. Marlon’s not sure which explanation he likes less.

“… Stupid.” 

“Yeah yeah, I know, I should’ve been more aware-“

“That’s not what I meant.” Larisa closes her mouth and looks at him curiously. He avoids her eyes determinedly as he runs a damp cloth lightly over the wound. It bothers him that she claims to have been absent-minded enough to sustain an injury this bad. It's completely uncharacteristic of her to be caught unawares in a battle, though he doesn't press it. There'll be time to grill her over it later. When he starts to apply a salve for the infection, he feels the muscles in her arm tense, though otherwise remain perfectly still, and the words come out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I know you’re in pain, so you don’t have to keep up the act of being fine. It’s annoying watching you try to martyr yourself.” Translation: _It's okay. You don't have to be guarded around me._

“… I didn’t want to worry you.” She admits quietly. Marlon wants to deny it, make fun of her for thinking he would- but it would be a blatant lie. Even now, he can feel worry coiled tight in his gut, moving restlessly every time he thinks about her other injuries. If this is what she considers a scratch, how much worse can it get?

“That’s just like you. Thinking dumb shit like that. If you’re hurting, just say so- you’re not fooling anyone.” _You’re not fooling_ **me** , is what he really means though. Because the unfortunate thing is that as long as her skin remains covered, he knows she can easily pretend she’d sustained little more than a graze, and he’s not sure what to make of the implication that he can seem to see right through it no matter how well she postures. 

“Alright.” She smiles tiredly, “Thanks, Marlie.” 

“Don’t call me that.” He responds in reflex. Larisa laughs, then winces visibly, hand hovering over her ribs. 

“Keep forgetting that damn thing’s broken.” He sighs. It'll be a pain but...

“Take your shirt off.” Larisa’s eyes widen slightly, and if he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she might actually have flushed a little. 

“My, my~ I always knew you’d fall for my charms eventually.” She drawls, leaning forward and waggling her eyebrows. Marlon’s face heats. 

“Not like that, idiot! To heal you! Unless you want to spend the next three weeks stuck in this fucking bed, which by the way is fine by me-“

“Easy, easy, I’m only teasing.” She raises her hands in a gesture of surrender. He’s tempted to just walk away and leave her to heal naturally… but he can’t quite bring himself to do it. So he stands there in the empty clinic, feeling like an idiot while Larisa fumbles with the buttons of her shirt. Before he can second guess himself, he bats her hands away.

“You’re taking too long.” He grumbles, steady hands unbuttoning the rest of her shirt with ease, “And-“ 

He makes the critical mistake of glancing up and the rest of his words lodge themselves in his throat. Larisa is staring down at him fondly, undisguised affection softening the lines of her face, a slight smile on her lips. She notices him looking a moment too late and grins sheepishly, as though he caught her doing something he wasn’t supposed to see. Marlon coughs and redirects his attention back to her buttons, desperately trying to pretend his face isn't burning. 

Then she’s shrugging her shirt off her shoulders, and he sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth. The sight of her bare torso, lean and toned and covered in old pink scars is secondary to the massive, bloody mess of bandages around her abdomen. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks…?” Marlon looks up at her disbelievingly, and she deflates, “Okay, so maybe it is that bad.”

“What the fuck did you **do?** ” He hisses.

“Fought a spear. The spear won.” Larisa offers him a lopsided smile. It seems strained, frayed at the edges. He reaches out, then hesitates, hand hovering over the gore-covered dressing. There’s no way he can deal with this without it hurting.

“I’m not made of glass, you know. I can take it” 

“I know.” How could he not? That fact that she’s still alive is proof enough. Taking a breath to steel himself for the damage, he begins peeling the gauze off her skin as carefully as he can. Larisa stays perfectly still, but he can see the line of tension running through her, pulling her body as taut as a drawn bow. Little noises of pain slip through her gritted teeth, and it’s all Marlon can do not to flinch at every one. Finally, torturously, he strips the last of the covering off.

If he thought the gash on her arm was bad, it didn’t hold a candle to the slash in on her side. The stitches strain to hold the torn flesh closed, skin blistered. Pus forms a crust around the surgical thread, along with dried blood, sealing it closed. A couple of smaller lacerations cross over it, and the left side of her ribcage is misshapen and a deep, bruised purple, ringed with sickly yellow. Marlon thinks he might throw up. 

“Holy shit.” He breathes, horrified. 

He drags his eyes away from her battered torso just long enough to meet her gaze. She drops it almost shamefully- he hadn’t thought she was even capable of feeling shame, but there’s no mistaking the guilt that turns the corners of her mouth down. 

’Moron’, He wants to tell her, ’It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ 

But he knows she’s already seen the revulsion on his face at the sight of her injuries, so he bites his tongue.

“This is gonna hurt.” He states. 

“Can’t be much worse than what I’m already feeling.” Despite his concern, he tends to agree. Holding his hands out, he gingerly places his palms over the middle of the spear wound. She actually recoils at that, making a sharp, pained noise.

“Shit, I’m sorry- I need direct contact to-“

“No, it’s my fault. I’ll be fine.” Marlon eyes her skeptically. But it’s not like there’s any other option- even with a disinfecting salve, there’s still a very real possibility that a serious infection in a wound that large could lead to- He cuts himself off. He doesn’t want to think about the worst-case scenario. 

“Hold still.” Larisa obliges, and to her credit, doesn’t so much as react the next time he lightly presses his hands to her injury. Calling the magic to his palms, he concentrates on the centre, spreading it carefully over the damaged area. Larisa gasps, then sighs in contentment. He pointedly refuses to address the rush of relief that sweeps through him at the sound. The inflammation subsides from an angry red to an irritated pink, the skin knitting itself back together under the stitches. It’s a slow process, but Larisa doesn’t seem to mind, sitting perfectly still as he works. 

Finally, once he’s satisfied that he’s pushed his magic to its limit, he pulls away. Where once was a cut as long as his forearm has healed into a large, shiny pink scar. The ’scratch’ from earlier is scabbing over nicely, her ribs are back in their proper places, and the bruising above them has faded considerably. And for once, Marlon is thankful for his aptitude in white magic.

“There.” He goes to stand, but a hand, small and warm, wraps itself around his wrist. Larisa’s wearing a dazed expression, sitting cross-legged on the mattress. She looks… vulnerable. 

“… Stay with me?” She whispers, staring at him with beseeching blue eyes. He exhales slowly.

“Sure.” A smile lights her eyes, and she shifts over on the bed. Oh. **Oh.**

Marlon thinks about declining. He really does. But the next thing he knows, he’s braiding her hair back into its usual style while she recounts the events of the mission, interjecting intermittently with snarky commentary while the afternoon sun warms their backs. It feels oddly reminiscent of days spent with his childhood friend. Again, that persistent feeling of deja vu skirts the edges of his memory, leaving any tangible answers stubbornly out of reach. 

He isn’t sure when he fell asleep, but when he next wakes, it’s nighttime. He’s pressed to Larisa’s chest, arm thrown lazily over her waist. Shit. He tries to pull away, but she makes an affronted noise in her sleep, and he freezes. There are worse places to be trapped, a voice in his head helpfully supplies. He mentally tells the voice to shut the fuck up. He shouldn’t really care if he wakes her up. Yet, contemplating her peaceful sleeping face, it feels like a sin to disturb her. Marlon settles back down next to her and tries to convince himself he’s only doing it out of pity. 

When Marlon wakes for the second time, he’s back in his dorm. He sits up, disoriented. When did he...? He looks around the room to try and regain his bearings. The morning sun filters through blue cotton curtains, suffusing the room with a gentle glow. Realisation hits him like a punch to the gut. **This isn't his dorm.** Before he can panic too much though, he spots a scrap of paper on the bedside table, pinned in place with a hunk of amethyst.

 _’Thanks Marlie.’_ It’s not signed, but it doesn't need to be. Only one person calls him that. Did she carry him back or something? The thought of it is mortifying.

“Hmph. Whatever.” He mumbles to himself. So it's Larisa's dorm, then. He weighs up the pros and cons of snooping around while he pulls his boots (thoughtfully left by the side of the bed) back on. On one hand, she's always been unusually guarded with personal information- this is a rare chance to satisfy his curiosity. On the other, she'll know. He's not sure how, but he's certain she will. He sits back on the bed, fiddling with the corner of a blanket embroidered with lavender flowers. Eventually, curiosity wins out. Surely it'll be fine as long as he doesn't actually touch anything, right?

Marlon crosses over a plush rug to inspect a small bookshelf wedged in the corner of the room. Tilting his head to the side, he reads the spines- The Art of the Acrobat, The Complete Stories of the Wandering Traveller, Relics Revealed, Local Legends of Northern Faerghus- pausing on a thick book titled 'Usage of Swords Through The Ages: A History'. His fingers brush the black leather before he remembers himself. A few slimmer tomes are tucked between them, her own loose handwriting inked on the covers. The labels are simple; 'Observations- GM', 'Observations- CoS', 'Sightings-DB' and the confusingly named 'Creepy Pale People'. All peak his interest, but he moves on quickly. Marlon has never seen Larisa get angry, and he's not keen to start. 

There's an open copy of the Encyclopaedia of Fódlan Flora on her desk, covered in annotations, notes and messy diagrams and illustrations. As he lightly flicks through the pages, he notices dried herbs and various flowers pressed between them, ink smudges lining the pages. Typical. It'd be a shock if she'd ever done anything with care in her life. Succulents in little painted pots rest comfortably on the windowsill, turned towards the light, and there's a small wooden workbench shoved up under the window. Other knickknacks lie scattered haphazardly around the room: chunks of precious stones, a single diamond earring, carved wooden animals, a deck of cards, bits of shiny ribbon, open bags of sweets, several daggers and swords of varying length and origin. He's about to give in to the temptation of picking up a curved, pearl-handled dagger when-

"Finished snooping yet?" Marlon jumps about three feet in the air. Larisa is leaning in the doorframe, arms folded, looking completely unsurprised. 

"What are you- wait, shouldn't you be resting in the hospital wing?" 

"Probably. Did you touch any of the white books?" She gestures to the thin booklets. He shakes his head.

"Good. I cursed them." She breezes past him, picking up the one titled 'Sightings- DB', "If anyone but me tries to touch 'em, even in gloves, you'll sprout feathers."

"Feathers!?"

"Or scales. Most painful thing you'll ever experience- or so I've been told." Larisa replaces the booklet back on the shelf. Marlon shivers a little at the thought of growing feathers through his skin. Fortunate indeed he'd resisted the compulsion to skim through them.

"You sure you should be leaving all that out in the open?" He asks skeptically, eyeing a fire opal the size of an egg sitting on a stack of blank parchment. It's being used as a paperweight, he realises.

"I've got some general wards up on the locks and the windows, but I'm not really that worried," She shrugs, tossing a fist-sized ruby in the air, "It's all just stuff anyway. Here."

She lobs the ruby at his head, and he barely manages to catch it. The impact to his hands is bruising.

"A memento of the occasion." She grins.

"You're insane." 

"Maybe." Settling down on the edge of her bed, she turns her face to the sunshine, letting her eyes slide closed. Soft golden light dances across her face, weaving itself into her hair, in the lashes fanning over her cheeks. Marlon suddenly looks very interested in the gem in his hands. 

"... Are you alright?" He mumbles. 

"Yeah," She looks at him, gaze unreadable yet undeniably fond as she regards him, "Thanks to you."

"Don't mention it. Seriously. Don't." 

"Then I won't." She gestures for him to sit down next to her. When he does, she leans her head against his. They sit in comfortable silence for a while, birdsong and student chatter carried to them on the breeze. Marlon thinks, just for a moment, that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to spend the rest of his life like this- comfortably, quietly, just watching the world go by. It feels like an impossible dream.

But then he glances at Larisa, and for a fleeting second, it doesn't feel so impossible after all.


End file.
